


The Brilliancy Of Day

by Spitfire007



Series: Victorian AU Anthology [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitfire007/pseuds/Spitfire007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindsay's mother had often chided her for her nosiness, and she had sworn a hundred times she would never eavesdrop again, but after listening in on a conversation between Mr. Haywood and his valet, she may be broken of it for good. The ladies of Buckinghamshire were bound to be disappointed to learn that the most eligible bachelor was never on the market to start with. (Regency AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brilliancy Of Day

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by laraloops on tumblr. I know it's not a technical Victorian AU as it is more of a Regency AU, but I hope you like it anyway. It also took on a life of it's own. 
> 
> Part of an Anthology of one-shots to be posted periodically.
> 
> CW for casual ableism, historical homophobia

The country house of the Haywoods, Lambstone Park, rests comfortably amongst the Chiltern Hills in Southern Buckinghamshire. Though elegant and stately, it does not consume the landscape, instead it adds to the natural beauty. The gardens are resplendent and well-kept (although not too well tended), in the center sits a beautiful fountain, with an adult Eros. His right, well-formed leg, bends up and back to form a graceful arc. His bow rests, recumbent, in his left hand, but ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. His wings are spread as if in mid-flight.

During the Spring, Lambstone is open for public viewing. It’s galleries available for perusal, a chance to glance at the beauty of the English country home, to understand the way that the virtuous gentry live. And although staff were there to maintain the home, to open the doors to guests and to manage the daily work, the master of Lambstone had not resided there for many years.

This was partly due to the age of the young master, at the time when he inherited the estate, Ryan Haywood had only been eight. His mother having passed away in childbirth, was not there to look after or guide him when his father passed away. Upon learning of her nephew’s plight, Ryan’s young aunt, Griffon, had taken Ryan in and ensured that his education remained of the highest quality.

Although Ryan had passed the age of majority now, he had remained in London with his aunt in order to take in all that society offered to him, including the possibility of a wife to become mistress of Lambstone. Much to the joy of the young ladies who resided in Buckinghamshire, Mr. Haywood was returning to Lambstone without a bride.

“There he is, Lindsay,” Lindsay’s cousin, Barbara, giggles gleefully before whispering in a conspiring tone, “You should go over and request a dance, introduce yourself.”

Lindsay, uninterested in lure of wedded life, glances up briefly from where she’d been inspecting her shoes and hoping to avoid being asked to dance to see Mr. Haywood standing with Captain Geoff Ramsey, reportedly his best friend and an unsuccessful, yet persistent, suitor to Ms. Griffon O’Connell, the sister to the late Mrs. Haywood. Captain Ramsey laughs uproariously at something Mr. Haywood says, appearing to have hit the spirits harder than polite this early in the evening. Several of the surrounding ladies glance at him with severe disapproval before turning slightly as if to cut themselves off from contact with him.

Lindsay glances hopefully around, maybe the party was coming closer to an end. Unfortunately, servants are still making their way through the crowded halls, bringing drinks and hors d'oeuvres to the flushed ladies and staid gentlemen. Lindsay sighs uncomfortably, shifting her hopes to a more likely path of escape. Perhaps a giant sinkhole lay beneath Lambstone and could swallow them all up before any misguided gentleman could ask her to accompany him on the dance floor.

“Come on, Lindsay, just think of how much fun it will be,” Barbara insists, even as she catches her sister’s eye and begins to beckon frantically. Ashley approaches with their their mutual neighbor Arryn Zech. “Evening Lindsay, sister,” Ashley says, stealing Barbara’s drink from her to take a quick sip. An unlady-like gesture, but not out of the ordinary for her. Arryn nods silently from beside them, no doubt feeling as Lindsay does about the affair. Lindsay and Arryn were both from families that nearly missed qualifying as gentry. Their ancestral lands were small and their estates more homely than stately. Lindsey only had one sister, unlike Arryn who had four, but even though her family had less daughters to marry, her dowry was undoubtedly smaller than what Arryn’s family could afford. The constant pressure to marry, and marry well, was likely to drive both of them insane before they could find a spouse, regardless of that man’s marriageability.

“How much fun what will be,” Ashley asks, tilting her head inquisitively.   
  
“I was just telling Lindsay what a grand idea it would be to ask Mr. Haywood for a dance,” Barbara answers, nudging at her sister not-so-subtly. _So it was a conspiracy, the traitors._

“Ah, yes,” Ashley exclaims, somewhat stiltedly, “a grand idea, just think Lindsay, perhaps he could invite us all for a quieter dinner here at Lambstone.” They were both horrid, horrid actresses, and awful conspirators. Luckily Arryn shares her look of disgust, at the prospect.

“I’m a terrible dancer,” Lindsay reminds them, “the only think I will convince him of is that I have two left feet and that he would be better off dancing with a chair.”

Barbara gives her a poisonous look at that, “You listen here, Lindsay Tuggey. You will dance with Mr. Haywood before the night is over. It’s only for the best. Nothing may come of it, that’s true, but just think how much you stand to gain.”

Lindsay shrugs inelegantly, effectively brushing off Barbara’s speech. Barbara looks desperately to her sister, who shrugs and then looks at Arryn, who sighs and finally gives in to peer pressure. “They’re right, Lindsay. Although it pains me to say it. Think about your family.”

Lindsay fights the urge to furrow her brow and instead levels an impolite finger at her friends. “You will all accompany me,” she demands.

Barbara gasps in delight and takes her by her hand, pulling her slowly through the throngs of people in the direction of Mr. Haywood and Captain Ramsey.

“How am I expected to introduce myself to the richest man in our county again,” Lindsay asks as they grow closer to the two men. Hoping that one of the others had some concept of how you approach such a situation. Barbara answers with an unconvincing, “Well, I suppose you simply walk up and say ‘I’m Lindsay Tuggey, would you care to join me in a dance, Mr. Haywood.’”

“That’s a terrible plan, aren’t you supposed to engage in some sort of small talk before you dance with someone,” Lindsay argues, “shouldn’t I get to know him?”

“Silly, that’s what the dance is for, to get a chance to talk to him privately,” Ashley says.

“Okay, that’s even worse, I’m expected to dance and talk at the same time? This is an awful idea,” Lindsay says.

“Of course, just follow his lead and you’ll turn out fine,” Arryn offers quietly.

“Wait, isn’t it impolite for a lady to ask for a dance,” Lindsay asks, but before she can receive an answer, her friends all scatter, leaving her standing not three feet from the illustrious Mr. Haywood. Both Mr. Haywood’s and Captain Ramsey’s eyes are fixed on her quizzically, and she stands, abandoned by courage, all good sense, and, most egregiously, by her friends.

“Ah, yes, um, hello,” Lindsay stutters out.

Mr. Haywood offers back a deep, “Good evening.” While Captain Ramsey merely smiles, amused at the awkward display.

“I’m Lindsay, um,” Lindsay can feel her face heat up, it seems she’s temporarily forgotten her last name, “Tuggey?” she finishes, embarrassed when she recognizes that she sounds as if she’s asking a question rather than making a statement.

“Abandoned by your comrades, huh,” Captain Ramsey asks, casting a lazy glance at her so-called friends, who upon seeing his gaze turn to each other and mime conversation, “that’s rough. I’m Captain Geoff L. Ramsey,” he offers. Extending his hand before realizing what he’s doing, retracting it and bowing awkwardly.

“And I’m Ryan Haywood,” Mr. Haywood says easily, before bowing gracefully before Lindsay, “please ignore the Captain, the sea didn’t deign to teach him manners.”

“Oh, no. It’s, um, refreshing to be offered to shake hands,” Lindsay stutters while curtsying hurriedly. The Captain laughs loudly.

“So Ms. Tuggey, why did your traitorous friends abandon you so callously,” Mr. Haywood asks.

“I’m assuming it’s because she was talked into dancing with you, Ryan,” the Captain offers, beaming widely up at Mr. Haywood, who was over a foot taller than him.

“Well, I can’t keep the lady waiting, can I? I would love to join you in a dance, Ms. Tuggey.”

They politely make their way through the crowded rooms of Lambstone. As she makes her way through the halls she spots Arryn’s siblings and her own parents, her mother flapping her hand at her father, no doubt approaching a corollary at the sight of her with Mr. Haywood.

She takes her chance now to look upon Mr. Haywood before they step into a dance. He’s rather tall, taller than most of the men she knew. He has broad shoulders and a strong frame. His eyes are blue, but not the striking blue of Captain Ramsey’s eyes. His hair is somewhere between blond and brown and it’s at a rather nice length.

As they wait along the edge of the area reserved for dancing, she thinks that being shackled to Mr. Haywood wouldn’t be too awful, although she’d probably prefer Mr. Ramsey’s uncultured smile and conversation. Mr. Haywood seems too well mannered.

The song ends and all of the ladies and gentlemen applaud, some exit the dance flushed with promise and activity, while others stay with their partners. Mr. Haywood leads her over to their spots. She hopes it is a fast paced song, that way she wouldn’t have to look too elegant, but not too fast paced because then she might not be able to keep up. Oh and what if the song is quite long and she exerts too much and faints or throws up. That would be awful.

She nearly sighs aloud in relief when the orchestra strikes up a mid-tempo tune. Mr. Haywood catches her eye only at the start of the song, the rest of it is spent staring over her shoulder. She makes a few, admittedly terrible, attempts at conversation. But what is someone supposed to talk about in these situations? The curtains? The furnishings? Other ladies’ hair? Lindsay had not been given etiquette lessons like most young ladies. Her family could not afford a governess, and Lindsay had been mostly left to herself to try and develop the graces of a lady. Books, unfortunately, were terrible to study manners from, and her own mother had not been an expert of etiquette herself.

She had haltingly taught herself to sew, though poorly. She quite enjoyed needlepoint, and Barbara had tried her best to show her how, but she wasn’t graced with skill in needlecraft, despite having a governess. She sometimes fumbled around on the piano, but not skillfully in any way. Dancing, however, she knew how to do, she’d practiced for hours with her sister and with her friends. This was mostly so that her friends could be prepared to dance when called upon. There were frequent opportunities to attend events, even in so small an area.

It’s definitely strange that Mr. Haywood kept his eyes over her shoulder though. Perhaps he was nervous, he hadn’t seemed so before, but he hadn’t looked at her the whole time. When she looks at his face though, it doesn’t appear as if he were staring into space. When they turn and separate for her to link arms with the lady next to her before taking the next step, she glances out over the ballroom to where Mr. Haywood appears to be staring. There doesn’t seem to be anything interesting in that area at first glance, people talking and servants making their way through the crowd with drinks mostly. But in one of the corners, stands a young man with brown curly hair. He is dressed as a servant. Clearly of higher rank, perhaps a footman, since he was serving. He doesn’t look very personable, the way he glared across the room at them. Perhaps Mr. Haywood had reprimanded him earlier and he was still smarting? Whatever the case, he wasn’t a very good servant, standing in one place and scowling like that.

But as she turns her eyes back at Mr. Haywood, she watches how his eyes flicker back to the servant, over and over. Unfortunately for her nosy tendencies, Mr. Haywood’s eyes do not disclose the intentions behind his focus. As the song winds down to a close, Lindsay thanks the stars quietly and prays that Mr. Haywood will excuse himself.

She gets her wish as Mr. Haywood, still distracted, thanks her for the dance and heads in the direction of the young serving boy, who abruptly turns and heads back to the kitchens, tray still full. _Very subtle_ , Lindsay thinks. She wars with herself over whether to give in to her nosiness and follow them or to head back and find Barbara. In the end, she finds herself trailing toward where she assumes the kitchens are. The crowd near the kitchens is thinner, with no one standing in the small hallway that leads to the heavy door made to block noise and scent from the kitchen. She finds it odd that such a proper man as Mr. Haywood would enter the kitchens, it was considered improper in most good homes. But this is where Mr. Haywood had headed.

She knows pressing her ear to the door will do nothing in the way of eavesdropping, so she glances about before carefully opening the door to slip just inside of the kitchen. If she were caught she would claim to be lost. It was transparent, but there was no polite way for anyone to question her intentions. On the other side of the door is the servants’ dining room, since most of the staff are working to provide food and drink to the party outside, it’s deserted. She steps forward to glance around it.

Where could Mr. Haywood have disappeared to? She hears something smack the wall around the left corner in what she assumes is the pantry, she steps lightly across the floor, nervous about her footsteps carrying despite the clanging of pots and pans mixed with the loud shouting of the cook. She keeps her breathing as even as possible and peeks around the corner. The young servant has backed Mr. Haywood up against a wall. Mr. Haywood’s hands are raised in front of his chest and he looks sheepish.

“That’s no excuse you piece of shit,” the younger man curses and Lindsay suppresses the urge to gasp. After all, she had once spent an afternoon with her friends giggling while haltingly trying out curses. They had found Barbara to be startlingly adept at cursing.

“Michael, you know I have to do the song and dance, even Griffon says so,” Mr. Haywood says carefully, clearly choosing each word to fit his purpose.

The young servant, Michael apparently, huffs and his aggressive figure relents and he steps back to allow Mr. Haywood more space. “I know, Ryan,” Michael says quietly and Lindsay resists the urge to ask him to speak louder and repeat what he just said. A servant just referred to the richest man in the county by his given name, and Mr. Haywood had allowed it.

_Exactly what is going on with their relationship?_

“You don’t want me charged with indecency, do you?” Mr. Haywood asks, and Michael’s shoulders slump dejectedly.   
  
“Of course not, Ryan, I just… I didn’t anticipate hating all of this so much,” Michael says with haltingly. Lindsay brought her head back from around the corner, listening with half an ear to the conversation occurring within the pantry.

_Indecency charges? What could Mr. Haywood be doing that would ensure that indecency charges were leveled against him?_

“They’re still executing, Michael,” she hears Mr. Haywood say heavily.

“Not rich men, not men like you,” Michael argues, and Lindsay suddenly feels as if she’s listening to something too private because Michael’s voice sounds scraped raw. Like Mr. Haywood had reached inside of him and pulled out some emotion made of jagged edges that had been cutting at him for years.

“You’re right, I’d be sent away, spend a few years performing penal labor, but there’s no doubt you’d be executed,” Ryan says bluntly. Lindsay tells herself she’s spent too long here, she’s heard things she doesn’t completely understand, but most definitely shouldn’t have heard. She screws up her will and quickly crosses the room and heads back through the door. As she exits, she bumps directly into another young footman.

“Excuse me, miss,” he apologizes. He’s small and much too short to be a footman, but he’d been out on the floor, so he must be either that or a butler, and he’s much too young to be a butler. His face changes though when he sees where she’d come from, he’s suddenly full of suspicion, “Were you lost, madam? Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

“Ah, yes, I think perhaps I’ve had a bit much, just, uh, found myself looking for a place to rest, and went the wrong way, but it’s probably best if I just return myself to my party and head home,” Lindsay spouts.

The young footman stares at her disbelievingly, but he finally nods and apologizes once more for bumping into her before heading into the servant’s dining room.

She finds Barbara, Ashley and Arryn quickly, but she spends the rest of the night feeling vaguely ill and upset.

 _What sort of indecency charges could Michael and Mr. Haywood have brought against them?_ The answer she knows all too well, but feels as if she has stolen some incredibly private moment and is now weighted with a secret far too important.

She heads home that night, having drank too much, and lays in her bed dreading the possibility of this haunting her for the rest of her life. Even as she thinks it, she chastises herself for not thinking of how Mr. Haywood and Michael feel. After all, they are the ones in love.

~~

The next morning, she wakes to her mother throwing the shutters open.

“Lindsay, get up, get ready, Ms. Griffon O’Connell has asked you to take tea with her at Lambstone,” she practically screeches as she pulls the covers off of Lindsay.

“What,” Lindsay asks, groggily turning around to try and capture the warmth of sleep.

“Ms. O’Connell, don’t pretend you don’t know what this means,” her mother sighs, Lindsay turns and grasps at the cover bunched in her mother’s arms.

“I don’t have to pretend to not know what you mean,” Lindsay says, pulling at the cover.

Lindsay’s mother frowns and easily steps back and jerks the covers from Lindsay’s sleep-weak fingers. “It means a proposal,” Lindsay’s mother says.

“To whom, Ms. O’Connell?”

“No, you daft girl, Mr. Haywood, she’s his aunt after all.” Mrs. Tuggey is still speaking, but Lindsay is a thousand miles away. Her body feels limp. There was no way that Mr. Haywood would be offering her a proposal, not after what she saw last night, and if he did…

_If he did, how devastating would that be?_

She had turned their conversation around and around in her head last night, thinking and rethinking what each word could have meant. Feeling sicker and sicker with each new realization.

She thought of the slump in Michael’s shoulders, when Mr. Haywood reminded him of the possibility of indecency charges. She had been driven nearly to tears last night when she had recalled Michael saying that he hadn’t anticipated hating all of it so much.She had thought of his scowl in the ballroom as she had danced with Mr. Haywood. How much it must hurt him to watch him perform his duty. She could only think of how the pain would consume him were Mr. Haywood to marry, as was expected of him.

But on the other hand, why would Ms. O’Connell call for her if not to speak to her in order to gauge her worthiness. Surely, she couldn’t know about Lindsay’s snooping the night before. She wouldn’t know about Ryan’s attentions on Michael. Would she?

In any case, it would be impolite to refuse, and so she forces herself to breathe deep as her mother flits about the room helping Lindsay to dress.

Her mother pulls her lady to assist in Lindsay’s dressing, a rare treat even if it isn’t one Lindsay particularly cared for. She is even afforded the carriage for the trip to Lambstone, a convenience that Lindsay had not particularly hoped for.

As she approaches Lambstone, she revels in the fact that it is still as splendid as the night before. The young man she had bumped into outside of the kitchen is waiting to greet her, so he was the butler, though absurdly young. He introduces himself as Ray, and offers his assistance to her for the duration of her stay.

“Especially, if the lady finds herself lost again,” he says pleasantly as he escorts her to Ms. O’Connell’s parlour. Before Lindsay can reply, he opens the door to what must undoubtedly be where Ms. O’Connell is waiting.

“Ms. Tuggey,” Ray says, bowing easily and exiting directly after she enters.

Ms. O’Connell is a thin, beautiful woman, if a bit unconventional looking. She wears London’s newest fashion easily as if she were born to wear it. It’s, no doubt, expertly tailored. She smiles easily and rises, grasping Lindsay’s hand and drawing her to the table set for tea in her room. Her parlour is covered in vases full of cut flowers, splendid blooms of various sizes and combinations. On the table, fine china awaits her. Ms. O’Connell pushes her into a seat in front of a teacup more delicate than any she had ever seen. Its handle appears to be gold-plated, it’s body painted with exquisite images of hummingbirds.

“Oh, it’s good to meet you, Ms. Tuggey,” Ms. O’Connell begins. Lindsay feels herself fretting before she even opens her mouth.

“Oh, oh no, please, Lindsay is fine.” Ms. O’Connell smiles lazily, it reminds her oddly of Mr. Ramsey’s smile.

“Then you must call me Griffon,” she says, she carefully poured Lindsay a cup of tea and gestured toward the tea sandwiches sitting on the table as an offer. “Sugar or cream?”

“Yes please, both,” Lindsay replies and watches as Griffon doctors her tea before handing it to her.

They both took a sip before setting their cup and saucer on the table. Griffon takes a deep breath, sighs and begins, “I’ve never been one for polite conversation. I’d much rather address the issue at hand.”

Lindsay looks to Griffon, she’s more serious now, but she doesn’t seem to be aggressive. She breathes a sigh in relief.

“You must understand that in London, we simply redirected interest by claiming that he had a fiancee that died young,” Griffon takes another sip of her tea, “it certainly helped that he carries one of Michael’s curls in a locket.”

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” Lindsay asks, barely believing what she’s hearing.

“We certainly don’t worry about the servants, Ray’s very particular about hires and they are very fond of Ryan, of course.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Lindsay tries again.

“Ryan’s buggery, of course,” Griffon says it so easily, “surely you gleaned that much from what you heard last night.”

“No, I mean, well…,” Lindsay blushes at Griffon’s no nonsense look, “yes, but I would never say anything.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Griffon says easily, but with an air of vague condescension, “I’m sure you’re the very soul of discretion.”

Lindsay feels irritation rise in her. Griffon must sense it because she backs off.

“I don’t mean to insinuate that you have any ill will toward my nephew, but his position of power calls for some… sacrifices, although it does come with benefits. While I doubt he will face execution, he will face punishment, if only as an example to others.”

“I understand all of that, Griffon, but I still insist that I have no desire to see your nephew harmed in any way,” Lindsay presses.

“I only mean to insure that you do not need any… extra incentive to remain silent on the matter, I prefer to handle things civilly, after all. If you were to misunderstand my willingness to smooth any wrinkles in our partnership, you may think to provide your information to someone else rather than approaching me for assistance.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Griffon sighs, “If it comes to the point where you find yourself feeling as though you can sell Ryan’s secret, keep in mind I can pay more. And that if you do sell it, the social repercussions that I can enact will be much more far reaching than you can imagine.”

“But I don’t intend to…,” Griffon simply stares blankly at Lindsay.

“Don’t argue, simply agree that we understand each other,” Griffon says. Lindsay sits in silence for a moment, taking in all that has happened. She’s been called to Lambstone to be summarily bribed and threatened, but if it was her dear nephew whose happiness was on the line, she surely would go to any lengths.

“We understand each other,” Lindsay says, nodding.

Griffon sighs with relief, leaning back in her chair in one smooth move, before straightening again.

“Good, I much prefer to be friends,” she laughs easily after that.

Lindsay couldn’t help but agree, if this trip had taught her anything, it was that she never wanted to be in a position of ever being Griffon O'Connell's enemy. Mr. Haywood’s secret was definitely safe with her.


End file.
